


Devil's Fox

by ProwlingThunder



Series: Boys In Blue [4]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Conversations, Father and Son, Gen, Parent and child, Pre-Vault, Watching Someone Fall In Love, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 11:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6422401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProwlingThunder/pseuds/ProwlingThunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Renigald King has a face to face conversation with his boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devil's Fox

After a childhood of being not more than a few hours ride from my son, with the capacity of contacting him once a week if not once a night, it was difficult to be regulated to once every several months. The only real perk of it was that I had free use of the vid-com room that once in awhile, instead of relying on a purely analog phone. I could see him as well as talk to him.

Not as good as being there in person. I hadn’t been close enough to home to be there for Silas since he was a teenager and I’d had to leave at the worst time, too. A breakup for a teenager like him was the worst. I’d seen POWs come back with more life in them than I’d seen in my son’s face.

He was strong. He’d  _ lived _ . But I’d watched it through vid-com with gaps large enough the whole US Army could have marched through. 

I loved my country. I loved my people. But sometimes… sometimes I wished I’d retired a long time ago.

“General?” I glanced up from my paperwork-- all signed, all taking up space on my desk-- to look at the aid standing in the doorway. He was new, and a little nervy. I didn’t actually know his name yet. My previous aid had had an unfortunate accident with one of the secretaries, might have received a pot of coffee to the face, and was currently recovering in a hospital.

I definitely had not slipped the woman a hundred dollar bill in apology. That hadn’t happened.

“Did I forget to sign some more papers?”

The poor aid looked positively  _ troubled _ at the thought. “I don’t think so, sir. But I thought I’d let you know about your eight o’clock? There’s a note in the ledger that said you would need reminding.” My eight o’clock… The vidcom. I’d booked it for a solid two hours, and barring the serious risk of Chinese invasion or the sudden promotion of becoming America’s five-star General, I wouldn’t be disturbed. 

Was it really eight already? I glanced up at the clock on the wall and found it to be nearly so. It was a good thing the man had come to remind me. I might have missed it, scowling at paperwork. Which would have been terrible, when there were better, more important things to do.

Still, I had to take a moment to organize my papers. A couple went into my drawers, to be delivered later. The others I stacked up, scooping them up when I stood. My aid took them from me awkwardly as I passed him. “See that these are delivered where they need to be. Then you can take the rest of the day off.” He blinked at me, then brightened a bit; not a lot of people said no to time off in the middle of the workweek.

“Yes sir!” He saluted, awkward, careless, almost spilling several files onto the floor. I saluted him back, briefly, then turned on the balls of my feet and made my way out of the office.

I had things to do, and I had a twenty minute walk to crunch into ten. Without stopping or getting sidetracked, I could make it. Not that I’d have time for  _ coffee _ …

The vidcom was devoid of all human life, except the call operator. We had gotten to know each other pretty well so far, and he was still here purely on principle, and I was grateful for that. “Same post, General?”

“Seems to be. He hasn’t been assigned yet.”

The operator-- a father himself, with two little girls back home-- smiled a bit and slipped his earpiece back on. I left him to it, moving to my customary place behind one of the seats. I could sit soon, but not yet, and at any rate, I’d been at my desk for hours. It’d be good for me.

Across the way, the operator connected with the base in question, put in the request, and probably got the base commander, like he had every other time before. I waved him to transfer it over and be on his way to lunch. Or as much of a lunch as any decent human being could have at eight in the evening, but his shift was ridiculous.  _ Everybody _ had a ridiculous shift here.

Frankly I blamed the Chinese. And the Russians. The whole red pallet, if I could.

Which I could. I was American. I could afford to blame our enemies for wonky work schedules.

The base commander was an old acquaintance of mine from my early days, and I suppose he had my messages flagged, because without fail, every time I called, he spent the several minutes waiting for my son to tell me how very much he did not approve of the boy being in the service at all. He was one of those people who had a great belief in the idea that America had a right to decide family trees should never end, and firmly believed that the military should never allow only sons in the force.

I disagreed, not in the least because Silas  _ was _ an only son, but because there were heaps of orphans and only children whose fathers had gone off and were never coming back, and they had as much right as anyone else to serve their country.

We were allowing women in the army, after all, and I already thought that was a damned shame. But if the nation’s mothers and daughters could go to battle, we had no right to deny any man on account of his family tree or the lack thereof.

Even if he was my own son and I’d really rather keep him tucked at home, safe well beyond our own battle lines. But he  _ was _ my son, and I’d be a piss-poor father if I couldn’t do what literally every other father in the country was doing, letting his boy go off to war. All I could do was ensure he never left the country. He might hate me for it later, but by God, those red bastards were never going to set foot on American soil. He’d be  _ alive _ at war’s end, if I had to call in every favor I’d ever gathered in my career.

Assuming he managed to make it through Bill’s training. Hardass.

We exchanged the customary conversation; he insulted my parenting skills, I insulted his taste of shirts-- because I was  _ better _ than insulting  _ his _ parenting skills, what the hell-- and after a bit, he turned away to grudgingly give Silas the call. It wasn’t like he could say  _ no _ ; generals were unused to that word, and they could damned well call to talk to the maid if they felt like it. He knew I’d bring hell down on him if he tried to refuse me, and much as he disliked my choice to wiggle Silas in, Bill liked his job enough not to risk it.

“General sir,” Silas saluted, which meant Bill wasn’t out of the room yet, so I saluted back to humor the prickly bastard.

“At ease, soldier.” He dropped his hand, and I counted to ten, drumming my fingers against the back of the chair. Finally I heard the sound of a door closing somewhere on his end, and I saw a little bit of nervous tension finally sap out of his shoulders. Good. “Rough day?”

“A long one. We’re coming off a seventy-two hour drill.”

Oops.

“Good thing there’s a chair. Have a sit and give me the report.” It was an old line, one we had shared quite often. I’d been using it ever since he was a boy barely big enough to talk. Holly had always teased me about it, but if she’d of known how  _ useful _ it would be, getting him to talk when he was a teenager.. well, she probably still would have laughed at me, but she’d probably have been glad, too.

Then again, it probably wouldn’t have worked at all if she’d still been here. God knows I miss her, but Silas definitely would have been a mama’s boy if things had been different. I liked our relationship.

It took a moment of him fussing with the chair before he sat down. These things weren’t meant to be comfy; calls made on the government’s dime were supposed to be short, and everything from the dysfunctionality of the system to the dubious lack of cushions reflected that. He flicked a glance to the side where I had learned the operator sat, but then he turned his attention back to me.

“There’s not much to tell. The DI’s got together and threw the whole camp into the woods for the weekend.” He paused a minute and then added, “It’s raining.”

“That explains why you look like a half-drowned cat,” I mused, and he grinned back, just a little. He  _ did _ look like a half-drowned cat. His uniform was still soaked-- he hadn’t had the chance to change out of it before they snagged him for the call, I guess-- and there were still droplets in what little hair he had. It looked to be getting a tad long, so he’d probably go in and get it cut in the next few days, because he was nothing if not prompt with his appearance.

“Some of the guys slipped into the river. They had us in full ruck, and that’s not easy to swim with.”   
“It’s not the brass’ job to fish them out themselves,” I pointed out. He just shrugged at me.

“I don’t want to be the type of leader who’ll send his men to do the things he won’t. You raised me better than that.”

I had. I’d raised a boy as much as I could, not being able to be there. But I couldn’t take credit for the man he had turned into, not really. So much of him, he’d had to shape on his own.

"Tell me the story, then? How'd you get wet?"

Silas shrugged at me over the viewing screen, though his expression was a little sly, a little bit proud. It felt like an express I should be paying a great deal of mind to. "Not sure how it started, honestly. Some guys in the middle of the line ended up in the water. Either they slipped or somebody got pushed, the reports conflict."

"They always do."

"At any rate, some of them haven't been off the bus for long, they haven't gotten to the swim lessons yet. So people went in after them. I called for a pull-line and a couple of folks that know CPR and had to go in too. Water was freezing," he added. "I can't wait to pull of my boots and pull on some dry clothes."

I didn't say I was sorry, even though I was. A march like that, with a swim after, and it wasn't like it was summer anymore. If I had known... well. I probably still would have called. But I would have waited about ten minutes first, let my boy find a towel and a pair of warm clothes. As it was, he was just going to have to grin and bear it-- and I knew he would, because neither of us got to talk to each other any more. Our schedules did not permit it to be something we managed to do very often.

“Everyone came out alright, I hope?”

“Nobody’s going home,” he decided after a few moments. “I think. The medics are keeping Private Louis overnight, but I’m pretty sure that’s just to make sure there’s no risk. He inhaled some water and took longer for CPR to bring around than the rest. Quinn actually had to haul him through the rest of the march to camp.”

The name caught me off guard. Not because I knew a Quinn at all, but because I knew my son. If there was a rank to be had, he  _ used _ it, never fail. I kept the curious smile off my face though, because my Silas was in a delicate position anyway. “I’m glad everyone’s going to make it. Sounds like the recruits this year are going to be quite the handful.”

“Some more than others. Carslile’s here.”

_ Him _ I knew.

I had heard that name a bunch of times, especially in Silas’ teenage years. Not very often from Silas himself, but Artem made a point to inform me whenever Silas was sent home whether he thought it was justified or not. Nine times out of ten, Artem referenced another youth involved in the conflicts.

Johnny Carslile, one son of Albert Carslile, a First Lieutenant and a royal pain in the collective asses of the Army. If he wasn’t such a good soldier, he probably would have been dishonorably discharged for his antics a long time ago. God knew I’d certainly seen his file enough times.

But the war with the West wasn’t going in our favor… and sometimes, things had to be overlooked. Especially if they made  _ progress _ against the enemy. Much as I did not like it.

One day he was going to get someone who  _ wasn’t _ the enemy killed. Then we could deal with him, even though it would be too late for the soldier we had to lay down.

"Is he causing you a lot of trouble?"

My son seemed to consider that for a moment, and then he shook his head, his lips pulling into a soft, fae sort of smile. "Nothing I can't handle. He's hardly the worst for it."

I almost didn't recognize the smile. The sight of it, after so many years... I had to sit up straighter, find my words-- the right words, or I would learn nothing.

"Who does that title belong to?"

"Recruit Quinn." My son's eyes lit up at the name, dancing behind a careful veil.

I remembered seeing that look on him before. It was a sweet pain to see it now.

"And what does Recruit Quinn do, that's going to cause my boy to become a grey old general before he's due?"

Silas snorted, grinning. "He fights with  _ Carslile." _

Did he now? I think I liked the boy already.

Judging by the grudging admiration in Silas' voice, he more than  _ liked  _ him.

I wasn't entirely sure how to feel about that. He had been deeply attached to  _ someone  _ before, and look how badly that had broken him, when they had decided that they were done? I had certainly gotten enough telephone calls from Artem to warrant more than a few grey hairs on  _ my  _ head during his recovery period.

Six years of going steady... I knew how much in love a person could be after so long. And I knew how badly it hurt to lose them.

I couldn't do anything about his first, lost sweetheart. I could  _ do  _ something about one specific recruit named Quinn.

I wouldn't. Silas had to fight his own battles, heartache and all. I couldn't save him from hurt if it decided it needed to chase him down. But what I could do was make sure the hammer of the brass didn't come down on his head.

"Sounds like you've got your hands full."

"You've no idea, dad. Trying to keep up with him is like trying to cage a wild fox."

I had to grin at that description. A wild fox, huh? I knew what that was like.

“What else has this troublemaker gotten into?” I had to ask it, honestly. I had to know more about this soldier that had enraptured my son so.

I desperately wanted to know how much like me he really was.


End file.
